


Felling a Genius

by warblegarble



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Vomiting, new relationships, stomach flu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warblegarble/pseuds/warblegarble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out even a genius can get sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Felling a Genius

             I was in the midst of a post-case mind-review when that annoying and disused part of my brain that houses feelings started poking at me, trying to make me pay attention when I clearly didn’t want to. Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I opened my eyes. It was dark outside. The streetlight filtered in through the window. The prodding at my mind was insistent. I realized that it was trying to inform me that I was nauseous.  
            Curious. I hadn’t felt nauseous to this degree since Mycroft had given me that ‘juice’ during his 18th birthday party. It couldn’t have been anything I had eaten. I generally didn’t eat very much while on cases, too distracting. I had eaten a crumpet earlier this morning. John had left it out along with a note saying ‘Eat’. I did so just so he wouldn’t grouch at me. Grouchy John is a horrible thing.  
            Moving seemed like a bad idea at this juncture. Stomach seemed to think that I was on a sea vessel. Best stay still. John should be home soon. Ah, I hear his footsteps now.  
            “Sherlock! I got you your favorite Indian takeaway.”  
            I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t hungry, but opening my mouth, for once, seemed like a terrible idea. I did not appreciate my body rebelling against me like this.  
            John poked his head over the sofa. “Hungry?”  
            I fished my phone out of my trouser pocket and typed “No”.  
            John snorted as he walked back towards the kitchen. “Is this some sort of new experiment? A type of silent treatment? Because I am not adverse to an experiment like that.”  
            The smell of curry wafted over to me, and it was too much. Bathroom was too far. I settled for rolling over and vomiting on the floor.  
            John is over in seconds, doing his doctorly duty of holding me on my side so that I don’t aspirate. I ride out the spasms of my stomach and soon it is over. I spit out the last bit of bile and lean back into the couch, still lying on my side just in case.  
            “You alright?”  
            I nod, not quite trusting my stomach yet. I watch as John cleans up the vomit. He has clearly done something like this before at work. Gross.  
            My phone beeps, informing me that I have a text message.  
            **New case. Scene about 5 mins by taxi from you. Bring John.**  
            Going to help Lestrade right now seems like a terrible idea, despite the fact that I feel slightly better after vomiting. I climb into a sitting position, minding my socked feet of the now bleach-covered floor. I pull my shoes on as John comes back into the room.  
            “Where are you going?”  
            “New case. Lestrade just texted. Said he wanted you to come too.”  
            John stares at me as if I have sprouted a second head. “You were just sick. On the floor. And now you’re going out?”  
            “No, we’re going out. Scene’s not very far. Plus, I feel better.”  
            John groans. “That’s how a stomach bug works, Sherlock. You get sick, feel better for a bit, and then get sick again.”  
            I grab my coat, pulling it on. I’ll leave the scarf off this time. Wearing it seems like a bad idea. “Are you coming, or not?”  
            John huffs, then stomps off up the stairs to fetch his coat. He returns a minute later, shoving something into his pocket. He brushes past me and down the stairs to the street.

 

  
            I spent the next 5 minutes taking slow deep breaths, my face pressed against the cold window of the taxi. As soon as we started moving, the nausea was back in full force. I was simultaneously trying not to vomit and trying not to show that I felt like I was going to vomit. I could feel John’s worried gaze from the seat next to me, but I ignored him.     Finally the taxi came to a halt. I stumbled out of the taxi, taking deep breaths of chilly air through my nose. John moves to steady me, but I shrug him off and walk towards the yellow tape surrounding the house that contains the crime scene.  
            Donovan greets me at the door with a nod. “Freak.” She point inside the house to the staircase.  
            I meet Lestrade at the stop of the stairs, already dressed in the horrendous blue forensics suit that I refused to ever wear.  
            “Scene’s down the hall, first door on your left.”  
            I brushed past Lestrade and entered said room. I pushed away the nagging nausea and focused just on the scene. Male, late 30’s, overweight, propped up against the pillows of the bed, several stab wounds to the chest. Wedding ring, shiny: _happily married, 5+ years_. Nice shoes but worn soles: _spent a lot of time walking as well as sitting: Businessman_. I walked up to the body and pulled out my magnifying glass. No defensive wounds: _knew assailant well_. Four deep stab wounds to the chest, centering over the heart. I rummaged in the man’s pockets. ID says that he is Arnold Matthews, age 32. Several of his own business cards stated that he was a stockbroker.  
            I stepped back from the body and took a deep breath. The nausea was threatening me again. I felt John hovering behind me.  
            “You ok, Sherlock?” he whispered. I nodded, so he headed over the check out the body himself.  
            “He’s been dead less than 12 hours, rigor has just started to set in. Four deep stab wounds to the heart area. He would have bled out fast.”  
            Lestrade walked in. “Whatcha got Sherlock?”  
            “Arnold Matthews, 32. Stock broker. No defensive wounds, so he must have known his attacker...” I trailed off, taking in deep breaths. I would not throw up at a crime scene.  
            "Sherlock, you feeling ok?” Lestrade sounded concerned.  
            I felt a hand at my back, leading me out the door, down the stairs, and outside. John sat me down on the front steps of the flat and pulled a plastic shopping bag out of his pocket, handing it to me. I had no choice but the stick my head in it and be sick. John rubbed my back gently until I was done.  
            I heard footsteps to my left, and Lestrade pushed a bottle of water into my hand. I wasn’t sure if I’d keep the water down, so I just took a sip, swished it around my mouth, and spit into the bag.  
            Anderson appeared on the sidewalk cackling. “Can’t stomach a bloody crime scene anymore, Sherlock?”  
            I glared at him and flipped him the finger, but Lestrade jumped to my aid. “Anderson, if you don’t get back inside right now, so help me God I will pepper spray you.”  
            John glanced down at me. “You think you could handle a taxi ride home?”  
            I groaned, but stood and nodded. “Yes, as long as I keep this bag.”


End file.
